


keep on keeping on

by CinderScoria



Series: Endgame [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, escape the night - Fandom
Genre: But also, F/M, I'm hoping it's not too triggering but again, THIS IS S O LO N G, Trauma, anyway this is The Aftermath, but I hope it's worth it oh my god, everyone in this is out of character, so I think they get a pass, take care of yourselves if you gotta, this fic deals with trauma and its repercussions so pls be safe ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 06:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15723534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinderScoria/pseuds/CinderScoria
Summary: (A sidestory.)Matt and Nikita escape the night, but was it worth it?





	keep on keeping on

Howard almost hit them.

Not a lot of folks are out and about on an early Saturday morning, not in Everlock. The sleepy Pennsylvania town only shows up on a map if you’ve zoomed in on Google a couple dozen times, after all. Sure, there was that whirlwind of activity when those folks went missing a month or so back, but the chatter has since died down, so there’s no reason for Howard to be any more cautious than usual on his way to open his bakery in town.

So when his pickup comes up fast on two people slumped in the middle of the road, he has to swerve into a ditch to avoid running them flat over.

“Are you  _ insane?”  _ is the first thing out of his mouth when he climbs out of his truck. It takes him another second to realize that they can’t hear him—they’re passed out in the middle of the street, the girl’s blonde head lying on the man’s chest. They’re dressed oddly, like they came from a seventies themed party. The girl has go-go boots, for crying out loud.

He has to open his bakery in half an hour. But these people obviously need help, and he hasn’t done a Good Samaritan act in years. Maybe it’s time to change that.

Neither of them wake when he shakes them, but they don’t look hurt either, so Howard puts his creaking bones to use and picks them up, placing them in the back of his pickup. With any luck, they won’t wake up and think they’re being kidnapped on their way to the hospital.

****-** **

Matthew Patrick and Nikita Dragun make their return to the world slow, and then all at once.

One of the nurses recognizes Matt on sight. They’d all been given pictures of the Youtubers who’d gone missing over a month ago, in case they showed up as John and Jane Does. He looks just like his picture: a smiling brunette with fair, lightly freckled skin, if ruddy in places. Nikita is wearing a blonde wig (they let her keep it, knowing its importance to her identity, though they did let it out of its rigid high bun), but still looks every bit the gorgeous, confident woman with skin of bronze and high cheekbones in the picture provided to them. By the time the sun has fully crested the horizon, there is no doubt about it: these are the missing Youtubers.

Families are called. Twitter feeds are updated. Flights are booked. And the two sleep on, as if they’re catching up on weeks worth of sleep. Physically they’re fine, though their refusal to wake is a bit concerning.

The local police are sent out to survey the site where they’d been found, hoping against hope that the other seven semi-celebrities might also be alive. They find nothing, of course. Just like the previous two instances—one per year—a handful of Youtubers go missing all at once, and only a couple of them come back, all wearing period clothes of some kind. Despite the community’s best efforts to prevent this from happening again, when this year’s group of vloggers, gamers, and makeup artists disappeared, everyone knew. The loved ones sat back and prayed, waited, and hoped. The fans made tribute videos. Their Youtuber friends used their platforms to plead for whoever had them to let them go, let them come home. In the end, only two of them did.

The news breaks by noon. It’s everywhere. Crowds form around the hospital, reporters as well as fans and curious onlookers. Security for the rather small hospital has to work overtime to keep people out. It’s just not time yet, they tell them. The Youtubers aren’t awake anyway.

Markiplier’s reaction goes viral in seconds. He’d been streaming when the chat suddenly flooded with thousands of comments telling him Matt had been found. Laura Lee posts a heartfelt prayer of thanks to instagram. It’s bittersweet with the knowledge that their foursome is down to three. And the two sleep on, blissfully unaware of the world being turned upside down in the wake of their return.

****-** **

Stephanie Cordato-Patrick arrives first.

Crowds split like lightning at the sight of her driven, visibly pregnant form, storming her way into the hospital. “I’m family,” she snaps at the security guards who go to block her. She’s been separated from her husband for far too long and it shows in the bruises beneath her eyes and the way her arm curls protectively around her belly. She’s seven months along now, and still rather petite, but Steph has always been a force to be reckoned with, and this is no exception.

“He’s still sleeping,” Matthew’s doctor informs her as she leads her to his room. “It’s to be expected—everyone who survives the slaughterings sleep for about twelve hours after they’re found.”

_ The slaughterings. _ It’s what the world has taken to calling the calamity.  _ Twice is coincidence, thrice is a pattern, _ Matthew had stated in one of his theories on the subject. He’d claimed that the two previous slaughterings were connected, that they were too similar to not have been done by a specific group, for a specific reason. But none of the survivors—Joey Graceffa, Eva Gutowski, Oli White, Tyler Oakley, or Andrea Russett—gave any explanation as to what happened, how the others had died. They claimed they’d forgotten. Privately, Matthew hadn’t bought that, but told Steph he understood that trauma is hard to get past and that they’d tell the world if and when they were ready. Most of them had gone on to live their lives as relatively normal as they could (except for Joey, who hasn’t been on social media for almost a year now), but the world still wonders.

And Stephanie wonders, too, about what happened to her husband and how they’re supposed to move past it. Will he tell her? Or will he keep it a secret the way the others have done?

She tries to tell herself it doesn’t matter, that she has him back, but it’s impossible not to think the worst when she’d spent a month trying to prepare herself for the reality that he might not be coming back. That she has to raise their son alone. That she might not be okay.

_ He’s here, _ she thinks. He’s here, and that’s all that matters. They’ll figure the rest out later.

Matthew and Nikita share a room. The room is small because the hospital is small, so they’re separated by a curtain and nothing else. Nikita is closest to the door, looking achingly young in sleep. Steph doesn’t know her very well, and she’s anxious to see Matthew, so she crosses the room, peering around the curtain to get the first glimpse of her husband in a month.

She sinks into the chair under the window, bringing a hand to her mouth. He hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still clean shaven, his hair is the same length. He’s dressed in a hospital gown and his face is tilted towards her, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. Aside from the setting, it’s the same scene she wakes up to every morning. Or at least, she used to. Their bed has been too cold for too long, and Stephanie hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed him until right this moment.

She’s crying as she reaches a hand to grasp at the fingers lying limp in the bed. Oh but this is her Matthew, with his sweet, sweet face, this is the feel of his hand linked with hers, this is his pulse beating steadily against her fingers. He’s alive. He’d beaten the odds, wherever he’d been, and he came back to her, alive and whole and every bit as beautiful as the day she’d lost him. Stephanie’s cried quite a bit these past few weeks, hormones making her grief a palpable thing, and her relief every bit as tangible, but this is different. This feels like release. Like she’s been carrying around the weight of the world for so long she’d forgotten it was even there. Like someone has finally taken it from her, and she doesn’t know how to be anymore.

Matt’s fingers curl around hers. Steph gasps through her tears, watching his lashes flutter, then peel apart. Warm brown eyes find hers almost immediately. They stare at each other for longer than Steph is used to, and then the corner of his mouth pulls up. “Oh, god,” Steph manages, a fresh round of tears choking her voice, and she rushes forward to press her forehead to his. They meld together like they were made to fit. His hand in hers, pulses intertwined like they knew each other’s rhythm. Her Matthew, alive, once again in her arms. She’s never letting him go again.

Then, from behind the curtain, they hear Nikita bolt upright. Her breaths come in quick gasps. “Matt?” she calls, voice hoarse from sleep. “Matt?”

Stephanie’s up immediately, pulling the curtain back to see the younger girl with wide, panicky eyes sitting up, hands grasping the railing on her bed like she’s poised to launch herself out of it. She sizes Steph up and dismisses her in the same second, sweeping the room until she finds Matthew lying in bed gazing at her. The reaction is immediate. She deflates, all tension dissipating as she eases herself back onto her propped pillow. Her blonde hair is in a disarray but she doesn’t seem to notice as she takes in Stephanie again, calmer, but still wary.

“Who’re you?” Her voice is still raspy but has an edge like a blade.

Stephanie blinks, trying to figure out if she should feel threatened. “Stephanie,” she answers, holding up her hand, still linked with Matt’s. “I’m Matthew’s wife.”

Nikita’s eyes slide to Matthew, and when he nods she finally relaxes completely. Steph’s a little insulted that their  _ matching rings _ didn’t do the trick, that she actually needed his confirmation first, but the moment is over, so it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Where are we?” Nikita asks. Or demands, rather, because her dark eyes are still hard and though she no longer looks like she’s going to throttle Steph where she stands, she has an air of “danger” floating around her.

Steph takes a deep breath and remembers that these two have just been through a trauma. It’s her job to let them know they’re safe. So she says, “You’re in a hospital. Just outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?  _ Why?” _

Stephanie frowns. “Where were you last?”

There’s a quick, microsecond glance between Nikita and Matt that Stephanie wouldn’t have caught if she’d been anyone else. Her frown deepens, along with the irrational jealousy that spurs up with the realization that she might have to share her husband.

Nikita licks her glossless lips before answering finally, “I don’t really remember.”

_ Bullshit. _ Steph bites her tongue so she doesn’t say it. She looks to Matthew, who gives her a worried, apologetic frown. Oh, so he remembers, then? Fine, she can be patient. She waited weeks to hear word from him. She can wait a couple hours more to get proper answers.

Except it isn’t a couple of hours. Nikita’s family comes in then, along with a doctor or two. Then the police, to ask questions neither of them could answer. Nikita insists that she remembered nothing past the fact that seven of her friends are dead. Matthew doesn’t speak at all.

And therein lies the issue. They’re released by the end of the day but Matthew hasn’t spoken once. He squeezes Steph’s hand when she reaches for his, he nods and shakes his head to yes or no questions, but outside of food—the two eat like they’re starving—he hasn’t even opened his mouth. He’s clingy and unsure, jumps at every little thing, and is just inherently different than when he left.

Nikita is no better, possibly worse. She snaps at the doctors, at the police officers, at her parents and siblings. The closer they get to her the more she snarls like a rabid dog, curling in a protective position, venomous words she can’t possibly mean spit out through her teeth. She only responds to Matt and hates being away from him for any longer than it takes to use the bathroom. At the end of the night her parents have to take her kicking and screaming from the hospital, away from Matthew, so they could catch their flight back home. It’d break Steph’s heart if it wasn’t so unnerving.

Matt doesn’t deal with his separation from Nikita very well either. He retreats into himself, curled up in bed, and does nothing but stare at the wall for hours on end. Stephanie can’t get him to respond to anything aside from yes or no questions, and eventually he stops answering those, too. The man who, once, you couldn’t pay to shut up, now refuses to even acknowledge that she’s there.

_ Give it time, _ she tells herself, but an irrational, angrier part yells that she’s waited too damn long already. She’s hit the third trimester now, she  _ needs _ her husband.

And he needs her. Even if neither of them really know it yet.

Still. Healing is not a linear process.

****-** **

The communities are unerringly patient. Millions of people celebrate the good news in the first few days, posting tribute videos, reactions, fanart and other general positivity. Nathan Sharp posts a song he’d been working on, with the caption that he’d promised himself if Matt ever returned he would release it into the world, and it skyrockets on the iTunes charts in a matter of hours. Meanwhile, the MUA community struggles with accepting that one of their idols came back, but another was lost in the crossfire. Manny and Nikita were such good friends they were almost a singular unit, and losing one makes the fans fear that they might lose the other.

A week after the news dropped of the Youtubers’ return, Steph tweets an entire essay explaining that though Matthew is safe and whole, it might be a while before he feels up to doing streams and videos again. She makes no mention of the fact that he’d stopped talking, stopped responding to anything that wasn’t eating and sleeping. Even being safe at home sees no change in his behavior, and though Steph knows she owes the community a much more thorough explanation, she can’t bring herself to admit that this might be their life now.

Nikita isolates herself. She retreats back to her apartment and refuses to pick up any calls, not from her parents or siblings, not from her manager, not from her friends. Her mother visits her but only gets as far as the door—she hears things breaking from inside but her daughter refuses to let her in. Everyone gives her space as days turn into weeks, but the rage built up inside her refuses to burn out.

May trickles into June. Funerals for the confirmed dead Youtubers are held, though every casket is empty. Neither of this year’s survivors are spotted at any of them—though if you ask some very observant people, they might tell you they noticed a girl in the way back at Manny’s, watching with a stony expression and disappearing before anyone can confront her.

Nothing has changed. Matt still doesn’t speak or react. Nikita still trashes anything she can get her hands on. The communities are still ever-patient, but the general consensus is that both are done with Youtube. They hope that they’ve moved on with their lives and are doing okay.

They haven’t. And they aren’t.

It’s June fourteenth when Stephanie snaps. She’s eight months along and has been doing quite admirably considering their savings are being rapidly depleted. Money is a concern. They still get Youtube ad rev, but they’ve lost their consulting jobs for the time being. They’ve also lost Chris and Jason (temporarily, Steph assures them after putting them on extended leave—they hadn’t wanted to abandon her and Matthew when they still so clearly need help, but Steph can’t afford to pay them, and they obviously aren’t doing livestreams anymore, at least not in the near future). Matthew barely blinks anymore, barely breathes. He’s lost a lot of weight, as well, and the change terrifies her.

So the morning of, she wakes and pulls herself into a sitting position, hand on her stomach, watching her husband stare at the ceiling. She doubts he’s slept. The few times he does he’s had nightmares, bad ones, worse than any horror game could put him through.  _ I guess that makes sense, _ she acknowledges. He’s lived his own horror game. But he won’t talk to her, won’t talk to anyone, not to her or his parents or the therapists she’s tried to make him see. And she’s so… tired.

“Matthew.” Every morning the same. He won’t respond to his name, or her touch. Stephanie can’t keep on like this. Tears well up in her eyes, of frustration and grief and anger and hurt. “Matthew,” she says, voice breaking as she brushes his hair from his forehead. He doesn’t move. Something in her breaks.

“I can’t… keep doing this.” And it’s like the dam crumbles, the fissures splitting the foundation like seashells. Teardrops hit the blanket, painting them dark blue instead of light. “I can’t keep on like nothing’s  _ happened, _ like you haven’t changed, I can’t keep treating you like you’re the same person, like I’m the same person, I need you. I need you back, I can’t do this, Matthew, I can’t do this anymore I need you. I need you, please. Matthew, please. Please.”

She’s silhouetted in the gray morning light streaming in from the window, hair spilled out over one shoulder as she cries and cries. She doesn’t see Matthew turn his head to look at her, doesn’t see him part his lips to call her name. She doesn’t feel him struggle to sit up. She spent so long taking care of other people, she wasn’t sure how not to be wrapped up in her own little world now that she’s slipped again. It’s too much. Everything, now, is just too much.

A hand closes around hers and she gasps around her sobs, eyes flying open. Matthew’s gaze is locked on hers. He’s looking at her, really looking, for the first time in weeks, in months. For a long time Stephanie just stares, afraid to break this trance, like if she blinks he’ll be gone again.

Matthew squeezes her hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I am so… so sorry.”

Steph lets out a mournful sound she can’t even comprehend. Matt pulls her in, letting her rest her forehead against his shoulder, and he strokes her hair as she cries. He’s crying too.

She isn’t naive enough to believe that it’s all okay now, that things will get better from here. They both have a long way to go before “okay” is even achievable. But for now, in this bed, she has her husband back, safe in her arms, and he knows her like he used to before. 

It won’t ever be the same again, but it’s a start.

****-** **

“Hey guys.”

Matt’s smile is lackluster but it’s there all the same, in his first Youtube video since returning. His voice is still hoarse from lack of use, but he didn’t want to wait any longer to address the community that’s been so patient with him. And he’s tired and it shows, but he’s shaved and showered on his own for the first time in months. He feels like a completely different person. Steph hovers like he’s going to shatter in a million pieces the second this turns sideways, and to be honest he kinda feels like he might, too. But this needs to be done. He needs to start moving on. This is the first step.

So he breathes shakily out, trying to get a handle on his nerves, and stares at the camera. “It’s been a minute,” he says with a breathless laugh. “First I wanna say thank you. You guys have been so patient with me as I try to figure out how to navigate my life now. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. You’ll never know what this means to me.

“I know you guys are probably wondering what happened, and the truth is I don’t remember much.” That’s a lie, of course, he remembers everything. The disassociation only took away the impact of it all. The second he returned to consciousness it came rushing back, and it’s hard not to scream just to feel some sort of release.

But he and Nikita, before they returned to 2018, had decided to follow the footsteps of the other survivors, the ones from the slaughterings before. No one needs to know this, and no one would believe them anyway. So they’ll lie, and say they remember nothing outside of the deaths of their friends. And leave out Joey’s involvement, as well—Tyler and Andrea, the survivors of last year’s slaughterings, hadn’t mentioned him in their report of events, though Matt had put together that Joey had to have been present, then. Joey was his missing link between the Youtubers. Joey’s been a victim of all three slaughterings.

Joey hasn’t shown up yet, in the months since they’ve been back, and Matt has to admit he’s worried about him. But he can’t worry about that, not right now. He needs to get through this video.

“I don’t remember everything,” he says again, “but I do know that my friends are dead. JC, Roi, Teala, Colleen, Safiya,  _ Ro—” _ He stutters on her name and is surprised when he does. “—and Manny. Every last one of them deserved to live, and I will honor their memory every second I’m alive.” He’s already crying, dammit, he didn’t want to do this on camera. He’d written a script out for this and cried then, too, but this is a lot harder to get through. “I just want to send out my deepest condolences.” God, he’s struggling now. “To their loved ones and communities. It is nothing short of a tragedy that I am here when they’re not. For… a long time, I grappled with reconciling this, that they had to die so that I could live. And while I realize now that this might have been a thought error, it’s still incredibly hard to let go and… I guess, forgive myself for still being here. It’s going to take a while, but I believe I’ll get there. Especially with the support of all of you.

“I will be back to posting theories and livestreams soon, I promise, but for now I just wanted to give you guys an update on where I am mentally, and emotionally. Physically, as you can see, I’m okay. Steph and the baby are also okay. It’s been a rough few months, but we’re getting there. In the meantime know that I love and appreciate every single one of you. And that I’ve missed you. Thank you for being here for me, even when I wasn’t.”

Steph smiles at him from behind the camera as he signs off. They post the video and then turn off all forms of social media, just curling up together on the couch to watch the Harry Potter movies. Tomorrow, they’ll go through and watch the tribute videos from fans and other Youtubers, they’ll respond to comments and tweets, they’ll start integrating Matt back into the social media world. But for now, they’ve done what they needed to.

Well, almost.

****-** **

Nikita sits on the floor of her bathroom staring at the broken pieces of mirror in her hand.

She looks awful. Truly awful. Like the dragon witch she is. The pink in her hair has faded back to brown. It’s long and stringy and frames her naked face like stalactites. There are dark bruises beneath her red eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping, of course, and she’s been crying quite a bit too, but mostly she feels nothing but a white hot blinding rage, trying to strangle her from the inside out.

It’s been months. She keeps up her HRT and absolutely nothing else. Everything in her apartment has been trashed to utter pieces. Her makeup collection is the first to go. Hundreds of dollars worth of makeup, smashed to bits, washed down the drain. Every picture’s been ripped out of its frame, torn up during one of her violent rages. Blankets and pillows shredded, same with the couch—there’s glass in the kitchen from where she’d smashed some cups. Every day she finds something new to break. Still the fury burns on, an unquenchable thirst that boils in her gut. She actually wants to be sick. She wants to lie here and never move.

There’s a knock on her door. It might be the landlord again, and Nikita knows full well that she’s going to be kicked out soon. Being afraid of bodily harm only gets you so far, even if she has been paying rent each month. The noise alone—the neighbors can only take so much screaming—wordless, mournful noise when she gets into one of her rages, trying to smash everything in sight. She is  _ so fucking tired _ but she can’t sleep these days, the fire won’t let her. 

Another knock. Nikita raises her voice so it can be heard. “Go the  _ fuck away.” _

A pause, and then there comes a soft laugh. “Watch your language,” she hears through the door.

Nikita’s heart drops. Matt’s voice is very distinctive.

She makes her way from the bathroom to the front door, getting as far as touching the handle before she chokes up again, face growing hot, knuckles cracking as she tightens her grip. “What are you doing here.” It’s not a question, not really, at least not one she needs an answer to.

“Can’t a guy come visit his friend when she’s feeling low?”

“You’re not my friend.”

“Ouch.” It’s still good natured, though. Nikita hates him.

She sinks to the floor, back to the door. “Go away.” She’s suddenly tired. “I don’t want you here.”

She hears him maneuver himself the same way—settling in, presumably. “That’s fair, I guess. Any particular reason why?”

_ You left me. _ “You’re annoying as shit.”

“True.”

“I’m busy.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Sarcasm, now. “That’s why you haven’t been spotted anywhere since we got back. Not on Instagram, not on Youtube, not on Twitter. Not  _ in person.” _

“What the hell do you want, Matt?”

There’s a long pause. Then, softly, “If your last two months were anything like mine, I just… wanted to see if you were okay.”

Nikita stares at the ceiling. It’s the kind that looks like it’s speckled with stars. 

“I don’t think I even know what okay is anymore,” she admits.

Matt hums in agreement, and she can hear it through the door. “You wanna talk about it?”

_ Yes.  _ “No.”

“Cool, then you won’t mind if I talk then.”

Nikita rolls her eyes. She stands and pulls the door open, letting Matt tumble into her apartment like a haphazard potato bug. She stands over him, frowning as he grins sheepishly up at her. He looks good. Thinner, definitely, and his eyes might be smiling but they still seem haunted. It’s a look she recognizes. She was staring at it in the mirror shard two minutes ago.

“Does this mean I can come in?”

Nikita sighs and steps aside. “Place is a trash heap, but yeah, sure.”

Matt’s the first person she’s let into the apartment since she got back. It seems fitting, somehow.

She expects him to comment on all the broken things she’s just left lying around on the carpeted floor, but instead he just… makes his way to the kitchen. “So I know you said you don’t wanna talk about it,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes through the cabinet under the sink, “but I kinda do so, you know, I’m gonna do that.” He pulls out a trash can and her little broom and dustpan. Nikita watches, bewildered, as he goes to sweeping up the glass shards she’d left behind on the kitchen tiles.

“I can do that,” she says, before she even really thinks about it.

Matt blinks. “Okay.”

He hands the dustpan off to her and goes to her open living room instead, picking up the pillows strewn about the room as she kneels and sweeps up the glass. “It kinda felt like being underwater,” he muses, loud enough for her to hear. “Like I had to remind myself to breathe sometimes. Everything was slow and cold and numb and it wasn’t fun, but it was safe, you know?”

Nikita pauses, pursing her lips. “It’s the opposite for me,” she says finally. “Really bright and really loud. It feels like… like my skin is cracking and light is spilling out, white hot. Like it can’t be contained inside me anymore.”

Matt straightens the coffee table she’d heaved over once, in the beginning days since her return. “I guess feeling stuff is kind of a new thing for you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not, not really.” Nikita empties the dustpan into the trash and then moves to the kitchen sink so she can turn it on. “But I know how to put a cork in it, save it for later. It’s just that “later” has gone on and on and on and on and I can’t— _ stop _ it, I can’t stop it.”

“None of your usual outlets are working anymore?” He says it like it’s a guess, an educated one, one he knows well. And, well, two can play at that game.

“Yours either?”

“Nope.” He pops the  _ p _ sound as he goes to the supply closet in the hallway, looking for a vacuum. “But then again, I didn’t think to use them. I wasn’t really thinking at all.”

The water’s warm against Nikita’s bronze skin. “Yeah, or talking, or being.”

He pauses, hand on the vacuum cord he’d started to unwind, looking at her from across the room. Nikita ignores the gaze she can feel on the back of her neck. She knows what she’ll see if she looks. Pity, or regret, or remorse. And he’ll use that voice, the same one the doctors and her parents and her landlord uses. The one that means they’re scared they’ll tip her over.

Instead, he says, “I should’ve been there.”

Nikita snorts. “Why? We ain’t friends, honey.”

“No, but I know what we’ve been through.” He goes back to unwinding the cord. “It’s been the hardest thing, not being able to talk about it, because if I did they’d lock me up somewhere.”

“Maybe you need it.”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “Probably. Still. I didn’t mean to leave you to fend for yourself. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” It slips out and Nikita’s kind of puzzled she said it, to be honest, but she means it.

“No, I know,” Matt says with a small laugh. “It’s a sympathetic sorry.”

He turns on the vacuum. She washes the dishes, the old fashioned way, the way her parents made her when she was younger. A lot of dishes have piled up, mostly cups because cooking anything is too much work and she isn’t eating much these days anyway. Matt vacuums the living room and hallway, taking great delight in sucking up things that rattle their way up the hose. For a long while the world is filled with noise that isn’t her own, drowning out the perpetual rage that wouldn’t leave her alone.

It’s nice.

When they’re both done with their tasks they sit on the couch, letting the comfortable silence grow between them. Finally, Nikita says, “I’m sorry for everything I said, when we were there.”

Matt nods. “I’m sorry for checking out when you needed me.”

“I still hate you.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Can we do this again?” she asks nervously, gnawing on her lower lip. “This is the first time in months I didn’t feel the need to destroy something.”

“You are destroying something,” Matt assures her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “You’re destroying the hold Everlock has had on you. It’s a good thing.”

Nikita laughs, she  _ laughs _ for the first time since Manny. “That is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard.”

“I try,” Matt says, grinning. “And yeah. We can do this again.”

“Good, ‘cause my bathroom looks like  _ shit.” _

****-** **

Nikita’s first video back is a Get Ready With Me, and it is  _ incredibly _ well received. She uses department store products and frames it like a scandal, but she also talks about how she’s been the past couple of months and what her plans are moving forward. Her mother calls her immediately after the video goes up, and they talk for hours. The day after, Laura and Gabby show up to give her a makeover, on camera.

She lets them in.

Stephanie has her baby July 10th. By then Matt has started streaming again, some with his wife and some without her to give her a chance to rest. They name him Oliver (“Ollie” for short) and Matt’s entire world is flipped on its axis. He’s the most precious thing on Earth to him now, save for Stephanie, of course, so even though he still has nightmares, his world is also filled with a lot of light.

He and Nikita fix up her apartment bit by bit, and each other while they’re at it. It’s an odd sort of friendship, one born out of necessity and survival, but it works. She tosses barbed insults at him and he responds with dad jokes that make her smile. To anybody else, it’d be weird, but it’s their new normal now.

They’re different, but that’s okay. They’re still here.

Matt receives an email out of the blue one day, from Tyler Oakley.  _ Dear Matpat, _ it reads, which is a good indicator that Tyler doesn’t know him very well.

_ It’s good to see you adjusting back to life in the present. Assuming you went through something similar to what we did, you’re welcome to join our support group every Sunday at 3PM. We’ve found that it’s the only place we can go to discuss all the impossible things that’ve happened to get us here. The reason we waited so long to extend to you this invitation is because we weren’t sure if your experience was exactly the same, considering whom the common denominator was in each of our incidents. So, just to be sure, could you reply back with whose name was on your invitation? _

_ Tyler _

Matt taps his fingers against the keyboard, wondering if this is a trick. It’s a test, for sure, but he’s unsure of what Tyler’s reaction would be if he finds out that Joey’s still alive.  _ Presumably, anyway. _ They still haven’t heard from him yet.

He texts Nikita.  _ Did you get the same email I did? _

**_Yep._ **

_ You wanna tell them? _

**_I mean, it’d sure be nice to get some answers, don’t you think?_ **

That’s  _ exactly  _ what he thinks. “All right, then,” he says aloud, and types  _ Joey Graceffa _ into the reply box. He sends it, and gets the response back in minutes.

_ Welcome to the group. _

**Author's Note:**

> let my brotp sail pls
> 
> HEY you made it to the end! This is the part where I tell you I have something MUCH BIGGER planned, that involves the previous survivors and also Joey's promise to bring back all the dead Youtubers at the end of season three. So if you guys wanna see that, let me know! It's gonna be rather huge so, yeah, it'd be nice to know if I had an audience for it lol.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
